


Sometimes

by crushermyheart08



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feels, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-04-28 06:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14443740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushermyheart08/pseuds/crushermyheart08
Summary: 'It's after the Borg encounter that the nightmares start. Sometimes she wonders if she could have done better, if she had done enough to save him.' Picard/Crusher





	1. Maze of Broken Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the Star Trek Franchise or its characters.
> 
> A/N: For all you Picard/Crusher fans out there I am so so sorry this is the most angst-ridden thing I've ever written in my life. Part two will be coming soon. If you have the time please read and review. I would absolutely LOVE to know what you think. As always, enjoy :) x

She wakes up at the same time every morning like clockwork, body shuddering as fragments of strangled screams lodge in her throat. At first fatigue, like a palpable weight, falls heavily on her shoulders, and then slowly the tangible remains of reality flicker to life and bitter remorse twists it's way into her memories and garish images, thick and murky with accusations, batter her conscience with a merciless ease. Unspeakable, unthinkable nightmares with lucid sorrows of their own, and horrors that circle as translucent ghosts.

It's after the Borg encounter that the nightmares start.

Sometimes she wonders if she could have done better, if she had done enough to save him. Perhaps he hates her for trying, for leaving his dignity in tatters despite repairing his physical form. He's said that to her, more than once, quietly, voice pained with bitterness, and since that day guilt has burrowed like a fierce parasite inside her waking mind.

Sometimes the memories stay dormant, a constant underlying current while she carries out her daily duties the best she can. At night the whole world turns on it's head, and a great beast lurks in the shadows until it hungrily unleashes it's fury on her subconscious.

They keep their distance during the senior staff meetings, eyes locked firmly on the view-port or gazing over one another's shoulders at some distant horizon. On occasion he visits Sickbay, and even then he never comes too close. There are no friendly glances, no smiles for reassurance. Those unspoken words still linger on her lips, an apology burning in her gaze every time she looks at him.

In the earliest hours of the morning she routinely stumbles out of bed and checks the monitor, his vital signs, making sure he's still alive. Panic seers through her bones as her fingers work hurriedly, murmuring faint commands to the computer upon accessing his file, and waiting anxiously for the medical report she fears will come. But there, in the midst of binary numbers and electrical readouts, remains the soft melodic beeping of his artificial heart, strong and steady. When despair cloaks her like a blanket she often lets it's rhythm lull her to sleep, and when she is shaken from her own rest it is there again to comfort her.

Sometimes, when the doubt is unbearable, she ventures out into the passageway, quietly sneaking to his quarters and hesitating at the door. She never goes in, just listens, makes sure the air isn't plagued with traumatised voices and twisted truths.

The first time she hears him shouting, hollow and raw like a wounded animal, like a lost child screaming for it's mother, she panics, torn between running to his aid and leaving him to fight his demons alone. She thinks about the way his eyes drilled holes in her heart as she unplugged the implants, detangled the wires that had distorted his body, his lips forming sounds she can't bear to remember. The memory, she knows, may never be erased, and no matter how many times she talks with the Counsellor, the same guilt, the same horror still rises from the pit of her stomach and floods her senses.

Sometimes, when she's desperate, she overrides the controls and enters his quarters. It's always quiet, a melancholy gloom hanging in the air despite the brightness of the stars outside in the black emptiness of space. They twinkle, watching her, pleading with her to continue, shrieking at her to go back. Silent footsteps, a hand wrapped around her stomach as the familiar sound of his breathing lingers between them. And as she watches him lying there, sleeping peacefully if only for a little while, she wonders if he knows. If he knows how much she cares.

Again she checks the vital signs on her PADD, but even then it's not enough. She needs to feel his skin beneath her hands, his pulse against her pale fingers, the ticking of his mechanical organ. Lacerations still fall like acrid raindrops across his back, faint mottled bruises weaving their way along his spine where she had removed the trickiest parts of the Borg technology. Seeing him so vulnerable, twisted in the sheets with barely a shred of sanity left to cling onto makes her heart ache with sadness. For although the Captain of the USS Enterprise is nigh indestructible, the man Jean-Luc Picard is not.

Sometimes, when he rolls over and stares at her with longing, pleading eyes, when he begs her to hold him, to make the pain stop, she can see the raging emotions that sail like tall ships over the rough seas of his soul. No matter how many times she wants to run, to flee from the despair held in his gaze, she will never leave him to drown.

Sometimes she replicates Aunt Adele's nightcap remedy, her soft voice soothing his spirit as she speaks of hushed nothings and the old folk tales that Nana had told her long ago. He stares at the ceiling, unblinking, lost in a maze of broken dreams and a shattered reality. They spend endless nights together like that, one talking, the other listening with quiet fatigue. Fingers toy with the fabric of her quilt, fists clenching and unclenching, deep breaths then shallow ones. Once in a while his hand manages to find hers in the starlit darkness, seeking the strength to battle the tremoring of his spirit and the disquieting, disturbing thoughts that refuse to be silenced.

Sometimes, when he has worked up enough courage, he pulls up the dregs of his trauma, turning them over like hot, burning coals. Words are uttered, faint, broken words that lie like the scattered pieces of a jigsaw across an empty sky. With cautious hands she collects them one by one, helping him place them together, and filling in the missing holes where lies have taken root.

Sometimes he screams at her, commands her to leave him be. She doesn't understand, she can't know what he's going through. Even as she tries to approach him, tries to reach under his cold exterior, he pushes her away. Raw anger gleams like fire in his indifferent gaze, anger that frightens her as his fists move through the thin air and he all but chases her from his quarters. Hearts hammer wildly in distant rooms, each wracked with personal fears neither wish to acknowledge. And even when her mind falls prey to the demons once more she can't help but wonder if this nightmare will end, if each will be forever confined to their own bony cages, with the stars as the only witness for their tears.

Sometimes, when the feverishness nightmares break, lungs bursting for air and hair in disarray, she wakes to find him standing in her doorway, eyes glazed over. A nod and he sits in the chair beside her bed, body curling up, cocooning into himself. He never faces her, never looks, never speaks a word. Despite the respect she holds for his solitude, her hand somehow finds it's rightful place on the curvature of his spine. Every bone, every muscle tenses and relaxes under her touch as she traces delicate patterns, gliding across the wounds that have yet to heal. For she knows that underneath the thick skin hides a scared little boy, wishing the monsters would leave him alone.

Sometimes, when there are no words left to say, he lets her hold him. Face burrowed in the crook of her neck, breathing her in until the hazy fog clears and he can see clearly through the darkness, see the light near the end of the tunnel. And as her tears fall silently, often mingling with his own, they cling to each other, waiting for the lonely, inevitable dawn to come.


	2. Knight in Shining Armour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the Star Trek Franchise or it's characters.
> 
> A/N: Hi all, thank you so much for the lovely reviews so far, and thank you for taking the time to read my fanfic! Here is chapter two as promised. In essence this is written from Picard's point of view as he tries to console Beverly each time Wesley leaves the Enterprise, in the same style as the previous chapter. I have actually written up a third chapter which ended up writing itself last night, so I may publish that sometime soon if you like to complete this story :) Apologies again for the almost unbearable amount of angst. If you have the time please read and leave a review. I love feedback, and positive criticism is always welcome. Enjoy :) x

It's never until the turbolift doors close with an agonising swoosh that he sees the first glittering tears appear. Posture rigid with formality, lungs struggling to expand and contract, bones hesitating before the world comes crashing down around her shoulders once more. Sometimes the weight of it all, the reality of loss, falls like a light dusting of snow over a frozen lake; on other occasions it's a frightful landslide, sudden and suffocating.

She always cries when Wesley leaves.

Sometimes there are no words to say, no words that can fill the void that widens with every step. Head hung low, arms wrapped tight around her torso, a barrier against everything. Against him. There's an irritating need to break the haunting abstraction as he follows her to her quarters, not quite beside her, not quite behind. Reason says she's trying to hold herself together, retreating to a place he cannot reach her. But those defenses, the bricks laid in cemented anguish, he recognises with a sickening familiarity: the walls that only bring further isolation and pain. Lonely hands linger by his side, itching to comfort, to hold her tight, but the thick air of professionalism that separates them is too strong to break through and he knows that one simple touch may shatter her completely. So he follows and he waits, a silent shadow casting protection until she reaches the safety of her quarters.

Sometimes he finds her alone, staring out at the stars with an unsettling expression, as if she were watching them disappear one by one. A leg tucked carefully underneath her, a discarded cup of tea on the glass table as he approaches, footsteps swallowed softly by her silence. Warm blood thrums in his ears and his tongue begs him to speak, to think of something positive to say. But there are no comforting words he can utter, no words of reassurance he can cleverly string together to break the deafening solitude. Anxiety builds and quietens, breathing settling into a hesitant rhythm. He never stays too long, never disturbs her reverie, just sits beside her, absentmindedly plushing the cotton pillows as a melancholy blanket unfurls across the night.

Sometimes he instinctively retreats to the holodeck, doors locked to all but him: a dimly lit theatre, or perhaps an antique dance hall flooded with moonlight as music plays quietly in the background. The familiarity helps, the harmonies interweaving trauma with therapy, blurring the lines of reality. A chair pulled to one side, tired limbs slumping into the form of an observant character as he ponders his own personal regrets. How he had missed so much of her life. So much of Wesley's life. How he should have found the courage all those years ago to protect them from the horrors he had involuntarily thrust upon them, to give comfort where the loss of a loved one prevailed. It's with a wistful sigh that he watches her drift between the beams of light, silvery rays engulfing her fragile form for the briefest of moments before the darkness shrouds her from sight once again, arms and legs tangling in the emotions that run wild beneath the graceful movements. Here they are safe, lost in a timeless dimension where duties and workloads can be temporarily discarded in favour of recovery. Here they can be themselves.

Sometimes she comes to his ready room, fingers playing with the collar of her blue lab coat until the thread begins to wear thin. An open hand, an eyebrow raised in question as he gestures toward the seat opposite him. She never quite meets his gaze, never asks for anything as she watches him work. If he's honest with himself it's a little unnerving, the way she observes his every move, the rustling of a book page, fingers tapping against a PADD, how he holds his pen, the tip scratching against the white of the paper's surface. And yet it's the way she loses herself in watching him carry out his duties that he finds the most endearing.

Sometimes, if he's feeling braver than usual, he'll venture into the bright, alien world that is Sickbay. It's not until the night shift is well under way that he'll set aside his favourite book and, hot beverage in hand, make his way towards her office, shifting through the long corridors of the Enterprise like a midnight ghost. His heart pounds as he wonders if he'll be welcome, if she'll let him in, but all his anxiety melts away when he finds her at her desk, head buried in a mound of miscellaneous paperwork, more than often fast asleep. Sometimes, when he allows himself the luxury, his fingers trail across her shoulders, brushing her hair from her face as he gently wakes her, reminding her that it's time for bed.

Sometimes she won't let him in. He'll sit there watching as she forces a smile, her stare frozen and unmoving, hiding away inside her blue lab coat as if it could defend her from the harsh realities of the world. Even as they meet for breakfast he can feel the weight of worry drowning his senses. Cutlery left abandoned next to her pale china plate, a sealed solitary jar of marmalade blinking at him beseechingly. Words leave his lips, clumsy and unrefined, pushed by an unrivalled need to see her well again. Yet she refuses to talk, refuses to eat anything no matter how many times he pleads her to open up, to let him help.

Sometimes, when he can stand the silence no longer, argumentative words roll off his tongue with a disconcerting ease, trying to make her see that her anxieties will do her no good. Flashes of impatience and guilt clatter against his ribcage as he seeks to break the impenetrable wall of loss. He can never quite gauge her response, never predict the waves he must tread. Fingers stretch across the expanse between them, brushing against her knuckles before she snatches her hand away, shattering the fervent hope that his words will not fall on deaf ears. Sorrow descends, a hammer against the steel of his chest, quickly followed by a suppressed anger than ties itself into a knot over and over again.

Sometimes she shouts at him, hands fisted and ready for battle. His own come up in diplomatic surrender, ready for the onslaughts she will hurl, hands pressed against his chest as she tries to make him leave. But his stubbornness refuses to be quashed, worry driving him to the brink of distraction as he watches her slowly but surely destroy herself. Dim starlight cascades over her cheeks as they stand face to face in her quarters, him begging for daylight, she coveting the protection of night. Unnecessary insults; a bridge too far. And as he catches her arms, pulling her tight against him so she can no longer fight, he painstakingly waits for her defenses to crumble.

Sometimes she leaves him standing there, alone, with nothing but his own disquieting thoughts and an abandoned cup of lukewarm tea on the breakfast table for company. But perhaps it is the stormy dismissal of her hand, the icy glare that shoots daggers into his spine, that leaves him feeling broken. No matter how hard he tries those aren't the words she wants to hear, and her continued silence is all the more distressing.

Sometimes she calls him in the middle of the night, her whisper cutting through the relentless, empty thoughts that circle in the blank space above his head. Legs shifting out of bed until cold feet meet the carpeted floor, a subtle nod inviting her in from the silhouetted doorway. Familiar pink and blue ribbons leave his stomach fluttering with butterflies, pleasantries replaced with a boyish shyness. She curls up on the sofa beside him, arms wrapped around her middle, voice shaken as she tries to speak. Eventually her walls come crumpling down, limbs tangling in his attempt to piece her back together, holding her to him, cradling her and drowning in the overwhelming emotions emanating from them both.

Often, when she has regained her breathing, she apologises, and he in turn reminds her that she never needs to apologise, especially to him. After the many nights she has soothed him, has kept the nightmares at bay, she deserves her knight in shining armour.

Sometimes, when there is no one looking, his fingers find hers and squeeze tightly, vowing to comfort, to protect, to be there as often as he is needed. For although lost time weighs heavily on his mind, the present is all he has to offer. And time, as he well knows, is the best of healers. An exchanged smile, laced with sadness; long forgotten memories of a young curly-haired boy and his unwavering obsession with the stars. Her head comes to rest against his shoulder, breath exhaling deeply, shuddering with the uncontrollable urge to cry. And sometimes, if he allows himself to drown in her tears, he'll hold her tight, throat raw with unspoken sorrows before the turbolift journey comes to an end.


	3. Glow of the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the Star Trek Franchise or it's characters.
> 
> A/N: Hello again! Sorry for keeping you all waiting for so long. Thank you so so much for the lovely reviews - they really mean a lot to me! It's taken a while to get this chapter right, and yes (good heavens!) it has some dialogue in. I went through an operation two and a half years ago, and whilst I am physically better the mental battle remains. I guess some of what I've written here reflects my own journey after trauma. This is set after The Chain of Command as Picard tries to come to terms with what happened. This is the end of this story unfortunately, but hopefully I'll be back soon with more ideas. If you have the time please read and leave a review - I'd love to know what you think. Enjoy :) x

Sometimes he imagines them. The lights.

It's in the loneliest hours of the morning that they begin their mocking dance, the sheen of white burning all rationality away until his weary mind jumps and starts like the engine of an old rusty car. Invisible restraints pull at the sinews of his wrists as images swirl and multiply, merging with that sickening sensation crawling up his throat, reminding him that these are visions of days long since passed. But the memories, the intense glare of those lights still fracture the backs of his retinas all too vividly.

Five, they whisper, and he almost believes them.

It's only when the door chimes that the vision subsides and he hoarsely asks the computer who wishes to enter. He knows it's her. It always is. Panic washes over him in waves, battering his limbs down into a languid frenzy, muscles clenching and spasming as his body betrays the thoughts he had so often tried to forget.

Sometimes, if he listens hard enough, he can still hear her screams.

He can't quite feel the warmth of her fingers against his as she takes them in her own, scrutinising the fading bruises, the way his nerves struggle to process the synaptic responses that fire like lightning bolts through his body. He's still healing. He knows that. But the irritating barrier of time allows not for recuperation but for repercussion, for untamed thoughts to run amok and unveil emotions he had sought to bury deep inside. When the trauma of physical scars subsides it is only natural that the psychological effects should rise to the surface.

She presses the steaming cup of Earl Grey into his hands before he asks for it, the familiar scent a comforting pull to the authenticity of his surroundings.

"You should be asleep," she whispers gently, rubbing a delicate circle over his artificial heart.

"I could say the same to you, Doctor."

Sometimes he can still feel the weight of the device against his veins, the overwhelming throbbing of a force not easily reckoned with. There is an emptiness there now he hadn't expected to feel, a void where pain had given way to an endless cavity of nothingness.

Her head lowers, hand passing over her face so he cannot read her expression. She is present and yet distant, withholding words that carry innumerable burdens of their own. Her auburn hair tumbles from the blue ribbon at the nape of her neck and before he can help himself he tucks the strands back, allowing his knuckles to brush against her own. The touch is ghost-like, but it is a touch nonetheless – another reminder that he had not abandoned her to an unthinkable fate.

Sometimes he allows himself to delve back into that cave, to recall each passing moment as he watched the door slide shut, the overwhelming anxiety and relief in knowing that they may, or may not have, escaped. It's only now that he's beginning to understand they had never been in the Cardassian's clutches, but that fear still drives him to the brink of distraction.

Slowly she lifts her head from her hand, eyes full of remorse as they stare unblinking across his quarters. "I haven't been able to sleep since..." Her voice trails off, lost, swallowed up by a chasm of grief.

"I know."

Porcelain white skin glimmers in the starlight, fraught with unspeakable fears and worries. The dark circles under her eyes mirror his own, each a bold reminder of the past few weeks. Perhaps she is only a ghost of his past, a solitary reminder of who they had once been.

"I don't know how to make things right," she exhales finally and he sighs, sipping on tea that infuses his senses with warmth and a vigorous calm.

"Beverly, you've already done more than enough."

"No." She shakes her head in earnest. "No, I haven't."

Sometimes he remembers her face looking down at him on the operating table, her tear-stained gaze holding back emotions she can't yet reveal as he flits between the realms of consciousness. Her hand against his, the ever-present sounds of Sickbay seeping through to let him know that he was safe, that she was safe. Sometimes, if he lets himself, he remembers the way her lips pressed against his forehead as he rested on the bio-bed, drowning in the safety of her presence.

Sometimes he wonders if he'd imagined it all. Sometimes he wishes he had.

"I should have gone back for you." She still can't look at him, fingers pulling at the cuff of her blue lab coat as she recalls the moment of his capture. The ends are beginning to fray. "I know, I know, I made the decision any officer would have in my position but, Jean-Luc, I can't turn back time. I can repair bone and tissue and muscle..." He flinches a little as her hand comes to rest against his temple. "But no matter how hard I try I can't repair what's in here."

He pulls away before he allows himself to wallow in her pity, swallowing the fears that threaten to absorb any sanity left flowing through his veins. He turns to face the menagerie of stars, yearning for their usual comfort, but even they seem to stare at him with scrutinising, lidless eyes.

Five lights, they whisper.

Euphoria mixes with insanity, the tightrope on which he treads wearing impossibly thin. One look down is all it would take to throw him off balance, to surrender to the bottomless pit of his darkest memories. But her voice, as quiet as it is, still manages to tether him to the difficult path waiting ahead. He catches the words before they can escape his lips, the battered truths he wants so desperately to voice caught firmly in his grasp. Her gaze is silent, apprehensive as he sits back down beside her, pondering his lack of courage. Sometimes even the simplest of words are the hardest to speak.

"Beverly, I don't know how to... how to simply be. My thoughts are not my own. I am... distracted, derailed by the slightest of things." He's sitting closer now, pulling her to him, willing her to understand. "I look at myself in the mirror every morning, and I find a man staring back at me that I do not recognise. I find, and I fear, I don't know who I am anymore."

Wordlessly she shuffles closer to him on the sofa, hands enveloping his face with the softest of caresses. He trains his hardened gaze on the fading mottled purple of his knuckles until she lifts it to meet her own. For a moment the humming of the Enterprise is all that lingers between them. Sometimes he imagines there's something more.

"You are still Jean-Luc Picard," she declares quietly, voice laced with seriousness and an unwavering certainty. "You are still the Captain of the Enterprise. Whatever he did to you, whatever nightmares plague your waking thoughts, you have nothing to fear. Jean-Luc, you may have walked through the darkness, but you have not gained victory without sacrifice." Her fingers trace over the scar tissue of his left shoulder, gaze never faltering. "These battle scars are a part of you now, and whatever your opinion of them may be, they are beautiful. Sometimes life changes us in unexpected ways, but at the end of it all you will still be, and always will be, you."

Perhaps it's the way his artificial heartbeat pounds against her fingertips that sends the first tear traversing across the hollow of his cheekbones, fracturing a crevasse in his once impenetrable façade. Perhaps it's the fatigue seeping into his lungs that closes his throat and sends him tumbling into her arms, clutching at her existence. Or perhaps it's the brutal honesty of her words that breaks down the wall of stoic denial. He is still healing. He is still in pain. But he knows now, he knows, that full restoration will come in time.

She holds him close as he presses himself into her embrace, relishing the protection she offers. It's only when he hears her next words that he loses himself in her completely.

"You don't have to walk through this alone."

Her breath is like fire against his collarbone, her arms as soft as the glow of the stars. The voices are still whispering, the lights still blinding, but at least here, now, he knows they cannot harm him.

Sometimes he wishes none of it had ever happened. Sometimes he wishes she hadn't abandoned him to the ruthlessness that hid beneath those dark, winding tunnels. But sometimes, with her head resting against his shoulder, his aching fingers entangled with her own, he remembers that life continues. That everything happens for a reason. And that maybe, just maybe, he will become all the more stronger for it.


End file.
